


Before the Fall

by dawnstone



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Dark Fenris/Dark Solas, Falling In Love, False Identity, M/M, Mission Fic, Murder Husbands, Partners in Crime, Post-Canon, Post-Trespasser, apocalypse boyfriends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-10-27 05:24:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20755049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dawnstone/pseuds/dawnstone
Summary: It was like the start of one of Varric’s lesser-known novels.Two strangers meet in a dusty old tavern on the edge of a wasteland...A tale in which Fenris and the Dread Wolf walk the din'anshiral together.





	Before the Fall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [katling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/katling/gifts).

> I've used a few verses from the Canticle of Shartan in the Chant of Light, which can be found [(here)](https://dragonage.fandom.com/wiki/Chant_of_Light_verses).
> 
> Thanks to Theneras for the beta. :D

It was like the start of one of Varric’s lesser-known novels.

Two strangers meet in a dusty old tavern on the edge of a wasteland. In this case, the wasteland was the Silent Plains on the periphery of the Imperium. The town, little more than a decrepit trading post on the Imperial highway. Like everything in proximity to the Plains, everything, the houses, the plants, the people had the miasmic pallor that things imbued with the Blight carried.

He didn’t intend to stay long.

Fenris never wanted to return in any proximity to his homeland, but knew the nature of his work would demand it eventually. The trail he was following led here; the part of him that appreciated the hunt as much as the kill wouldn’t relent.

Simply put, there was a man in Tevinter who needed to die for crimes committed in the south, and he intended to make that happen violently.

He never asked for help. Hawke could have volunteered, perhaps. Too busy now keeping the peace in Kirkwall, while Varric moaned and groaned about being Viscount. Knowing Fenris' ingrained habits, they left him to follow his own blood and gore stained thread.

Their inattention was not exactly abandonment, and he could have done more to pull them back into his life if he really wanted the company. It was what it was.

Killing slavers and their associates by the bushel was satisfying for him, but not the sort of work most people stuck around for unpaid. Fenris didn’t have the patience to coddle or train the sort of young angry person who would.

Lonely work, but necessary, and funded almost entirely by what he took from the slavers own pockets. Money to travel and feed himself, and to distribute among the victims so they could go back to their lives.

He didn’t really realize the depth of the feeling in himself, until he saw the briefest flash of that same loneliness in another man’s gaze. If he’d seen it at all—the stranger’s expression quickly settled into an aloof mask as he approached Fenris' table.

Odd that someone with clothes so travel-worn, didn’t carry the sweat and dirt scent of the road along with him. Instead, Fenris caught the whiff of leather and old books. A scent both pleasantly cosmopolitan and fiercely unnatural in this setting. It made him think of magic, of his master’s visits to the great library in Minrathous, back when as an illiterate slave such a thing was impossible for him to make use of.

If this man had ever known such challenges, he’d long since overcome them.

The pale stranger gestured to the chair across from him. “May I?”

He already had a drink in hand, though Fenris wasn’t sure he’d seen him stop off at the dingy bar. The tavern had several empty tables, along with the ones occupied by tired merchants and locals, so it certainly wasn’t a matter of space.

“I cannot promise good conversation, but if you wish.”

“I do—and I would like to ask you something.” The man’s thin eyebrow raised with the request as he took a seat, all of his motions fluid and virtually silent. Fenris decided then that his visitor was likely the sort of person who could dig up what he needed, whether he told him or not. He was merely starting out polite.

Nothing in the other man’s posture made him believe he was looking for an opening to attack him. Rather, he seemed quite assured that a fight was only going to turn out one way, and Fenris would not be the one still standing.

Such cockiness might have provoked a different person; having pulled Isabela off one bravo or another, countless times over the years, had left Fenris tired of such impulsive confrontations.

“Very well. Speak.” He took a long drink from his mug, though the watered wine had no redeeming qualities beyond wetting his throat.

“You were once a companion of the Champion of Kirkwall, were you not?”

“I was. Am. I haven’t seen him for a while. I expect he’s playing cards in Lowtown at the Hanged Man, if you’re looking for him.”

“No, I was looking for you. Do you still go by ‘Fenris’?” 

Though the man wore deep cowl, now that Fenris sat across from him, he could discern he was an elf. Thin, pointed features, fully bald as was not uncommon in elven men, and an air of confidence and self-possession that was not near as common. Likely a mage, if one with no regalia from either the Chantry or Magisterium; nor did he seem to have a staff in his possession. Really his dress was quite poor even if the bits of armor he wore were not.

His accent was curious. Practiced trade tongue but with the slant of those of the Dalish who fell into elvish whenever possible. Yet no vallaslin. A scar on the forehead where vallaslin might once have been, or perhaps just a scar. Very curious...

“Yes. Might I know who is asking?”

The faint shadow of a smile passed over the man’s face, and then was gone. “You may call me Samahlas. I was advised to follow the trail of dead slavers, if I wished to find you. There were… quite a few. It was astonishingly easy. What is it they call you? The Blue Wraith? There are worse titles, I suppose.”

True, Fenris did little to cover his tracks, or cast any apologies for the inevitable mess he left behind. It might have finally caught up with him. The name the man gave him likely wasn’t his true name, though it was elvish.

A variation on the word for laughter. He who laughs. He seemed to like to talk more than laugh.

“Advised by whom?”

“Many people, the Viscount most notably. Your work is well known. I find it surprising there are still those willing to risk operating in the areas you protect.”

“Protection isn’t really what I’d call it. More clearing a house of vermin. You don’t sound surprised, Samahlas.” More bone weary and angling towards something he found unpleasant. The man didn’t seem upset by the ‘work’ Fenris did though.

He nodded slightly, and spoke low, keeping his hands around his mug. “Those willing to take advantage often move with haste. Tell me, are you perhaps in pursuit of a merchant of slaves named Marcus who works for House Cordis?”

On to business with little decorum, then. An approach Fenris could appreciate. He wasn't preparing an attack though, so what next? A trap?

How he knew exactly who Fenris’ target was might be good to find out. Only Varric was supposed to know that detail, which meant this man might have connections with one of the various spy rings between Kirkwall and the surrounding countries.

Not working for the Qun since they didn’t use mages in intelligence roles, nor Orlais as they didn’t often utilize elves in sensitive positions. The Inquisition most likely, or what was left of it. One of Nightingale's people, perhaps? She kept in contact with Varric.

“I am. Why do you ask?” They both knew there were limited means by which he could have come across the information. Samahlas never revealed his source, but, it would seem, he wasn't here to try to kill him.

“If you are interested, I am on my way to a certain fortress which I believe your merchant has gone to ground in. I have my own reasons to visit, and thought perhaps we could help each other.” ‘Visit’ weighted with a tone meaning that the mage intended to murder anyone in his path between him and his goal, whatever that might be.

“Quite an undertaking. The walls there have magical weapons lining them and the magister has hundreds of men quartered there.” Samahlas was either extremely overconfident, or had some sort of unusual knowledge of the place. Maybe both. Fenris had planned on trying to catch Marcus on the road; if the mage knew a way inside to get at him more easily, he’d be a fool to pass it up.

“Yes, it's an ancient elvhen structure, well-shielded against magical attacks. So much so, that I find myself in need of another pair of hands. Yours are rather famously useful.”

If someone else had said those words, Fenris might have thought them flirtatious, but despite the name, Samahlas’ current demeanor was entirely without humor.

“You’ve read Varric’s book,” Fenris said, amused nonetheless.

There were on occasion people who approached him, usually elves, usually former slaves. His story gave them a sort of relief—that he’d survived what he had and kept going, that their feelings were valid even though getting revenge didn’t always mean getting peace of mind. He was glad it helped someone out there, but he preferred not to think about any of it too much. There were so many ways his story could have gone wrong.

“Master Tethras’ book has made its way to many a library.”

“You didn’t answer the question.”

Samahlas nodded, and grinned infinitesimally. “He wrote an entire chapter detailing your escapades with Hawke in helping the guard captain woo her husband. Yes, I read it. I think we might have things in common—though not the guard captain.”

Heh. She still owed them for that. And Samahlas had very nearly made a joke.

It was then that Fenris made up his mind to go along with him. Something about a man so confident in his own power simply needing him was compelling at its core. That this mysterious task required the use of his tattoos was less so, but it was not as if the stranger wasn’t offering his own skills in exchange.

“We should discuss this elsewhere.” Not that there were many people around to overhear, but best to err on the side of caution.

“Agreed. Shall we meet on the road in the morning? Assuming of course you are planning to move on then.”

There weren’t many places to go in a town like this. As it stood, he planned to rest for the night as he usually did, lightly, with his back up against a wall, his sword within arms reach. It was nice to travel with a mage occasionally, if only to have the benefit of wards. He wasn’t going to trust this one to protect his sleep just yet, however.

“I am. Meet me at dawn at the north gate.”

Even if they didn’t end up agreeing to anything else, they could perhaps agree not to interfere with each other’s plans.

* * *

On the journey there, which took the better part of a week, Fenris learned two important things about Samahlas.

One, he was a Dreamer mage, which made him exponentially more dangerous than any normal mage. Fortunately, he seemed to eschew blood magic, claiming it affected his connection to the Fade. Samahlas seemed very fond of his dreams.

Two, he knew things no one who didn’t have frequent access to the higher echelons of a political or military organization could possibly have knowledge of. The mage passed most of this off as minutiae he’d been exposed to in the Fade, having learned to pluck useful information from the dreams and memories which coalesced there. Locations, supply lines, individuals whose loss would be felt… Details which had the flavor of planning some sort of insurgency, and with them a quiet and subtle invitation to Fenris.

Fenris had heard whispers of rebellion in the north before, but such activities were always crushed with breathtaking ease by the Magisterium. Pointless, useless bloodshed. Even if one succeeded, the victors would still need to be able to hold back the Qunari, while the economy crumbled from the populace having no comprehension of a world that didn't depend upon bonded labor; there was no group other than the Imperium’s mage elite even half prepared to fight the Qunari. Tevinter would quickly become a quagmire like Seheron, until the south pulled themselves together for another Exalted March.

The hand of the Maker would have to come down and smite the lot of them for any real change to happen.

And perhaps one day it would—Fenris had read of it in the Chant of Light. He’d also read the Canticle of Shartan, declared dissonant by the Chantry after the Exalted March on the Dales. Nothing that might inspire an elf to fight for his own personhood was welcomed by that institution, no matter what Sebastian said.

When he said as much, Samahlas just chuckled. “At least Andraste welcomed us. What is the verse?

_There, in the heart of them, sang a Lady radiant_  
_And clad in armor of bright steel._  
_She paused her song to look upon Shartan,_  
_And said to him: "All souls who take up the sword_  
_Against Tevinter are welcome here._  
_Rest, and tell us of your battles."_.”

Fenris followed him with the next verse.

"_And Shartan told her: "I cannot rest_  
_While the People wait in darkness and fear."_  
_So Andraste sent him with three of her attendants_  
_To invite the People to come to her side._"

The corner of Samahlas' mouth turned up. "I am glad someone else remembers," he said, with a small sigh.

"It was the first book I read cover to cover." A gift from Hawke when he was teaching him to read.

They spoke little more of it, focusing instead on how they would make their way into the fortress.

The detailed map of the ancient fortification the mage provided, demarcating passages both known and secret, even the elaborate catacombs beneath, did in fact make Fenris’ life considerably easier. They weren’t trying to take the fortress itself, therefore once inside they only killed the guards when it was unavoidable. The ones guarding the slaves were certainly unavoidable, as was breaking the locks on the cages they were kept inside. 

This was when Fenris discovered that the mage didn’t even have to move his hands to strike. Just the barest flash of light, and the hiss of air shifting, and his target was petrified. No shouts or falling weapons or clattering armor to draw attention. The spell itself was familiar to Fenris, but he’d seldom seen it performed so effortlessly. Terrifying and potent magic beyond what was usually possible.

Soon they passed into the officer’s quarters—small ugly rooms, rendered uglier by the tools and implements kept by blood mages who did their work almost openly. Before any of them could raise an alarm, Marcus lay dead in the night, along with the magister who employed him and several underlings. Finished so quickly as to seem merciful compared to what their victims suffered.

It didn’t matter, they would do no more harm to anyone.

Samahlas took no gold or jewels from the coffers there, though Fenris helped himself. He had to pay for food and lodgings all of the way back to Kirkwall, after all.

Waiting and watching him scavenge through the magister’s desk and wardrobe for valuables, the mage finally spoke.

“We should move on with haste. If you do not wish to have further involvement with me, I can help you reach an exit. Else, we should seek our next objective before our incursion is discovered.”

Fenris didn’t like the condescending lilt which had entered Samahlas' voice, but admittedly his blood was still up from ripping Marcus’ heart out. He turned to look at his companion sharply, who had pushed his hood back at some point. The dim light made the man’s eyes flicker golden, and for a moment the shadows made him look as if he came from another world.

A heavy silence stretched between them.

“Who are you really?” Fenris had a few guesses already. Murmurs from across the Waking Sea, of elves rallying in enclaves, leaving the farms and great houses with nothing but the clothes on their backs.

“Are you coming, yes or no?” asked the mage, impatient.

“What do you need me for?”

“As I said, an extra pair of hands.” To tear down the world as it stood. To free all those who toiled in bondage. To heal what was sundered. He didn’t hear the words so much as feel them echo somewhere in the back of his mind.

“Why?”

“Yes or no, lethallin.” No glory, no thanks, no space left for fear; just a task that must be done, came the echo, again.

“You were quoting Shartan at me for a reason. How far do you really think you can go?”

The mage just shook his head. “If I could make a world where all were free, and magic was never again abused, I would do so in a heartbeat. But I walk the din’anshiral, Fenris. For a final attempt to restore what was lost to us. Anything more is still a dream. You’ve read what fate awaits rebels. Once you are on this path there is no going back.”

The din’anshiral, literally ‘death journey’. A path they both walked, even if Fenris didn’t call it that. Death in front of him and death behind; though he'd learned to let go of some of it, there remained within him anger and grief that no drink could drown.

Fenris rolled the small pouch of coins he’d taken from the magister’s belt in his hand. When he left this place, nothing would have changed. Maybe a few of the freed slaves would make good on their newfound liberty. In a few weeks though, the magister’s heir would step in and take over, and slave trafficking operations would continue as they had. No shifting of the balance, no justice, if justice had ever truly existed.

And he’d never been one to join causes.

“Yes. But I’m not planning on dying for you.”

“I didn’t ask you to,” the mage said with a chuckle in his throat. He stood up straight from where he’d been leaning against the wall.

“Less talk. Lead on, before I change my mind.”

“Indeed.” 

Stepping over the bodies, they wended their way back through dark corridors, down and down. Those who might challenge them were already felled.

* * *

Deep in the catacombs of the fortress, where the faintest glow of lyrium veins started threading up into the stone, there was a door, taller than two men, with elven runes glowing softly in the ironwood.

Fenris could easily pick out evidence that a great deal of magic and manpower had been expended over the centuries trying to open it. Great gouges in the stone, scorch marks on the ceiling. There were places where the space behind the door had been excavated, but only more stone lay behind it. A pair of sleepy guards wearing the recently deceased magister's livery were posted on either side, should it suddenly decide to open.

“The lock is simple enough, with the right tools. One of which is someone who can phase shift their hands between the Fade and the field that sustains the antichamber,” Samahlas said, after they’d disposed of the guards.

“Surprised they didn’t figure that out by now.” Dismantling ancient elven artifacts and ruins was a field of study all of its own in Tevinter, much of the research hoarded where elves themselves couldn’t access it.

“The field is randomized in frequency, which if one hasn’t been trained to see without the Veil contrasted over it, can be very tricky. One person had to hold it stable while the other disarmed the lock from within. The sort of body work you had done to you was once far more common, I’m afraid. Locks like these relied upon it.”

The mage had said little of his marks until this moment, and it startled him. How could he know in such detail how they’d been used in the past?

He knew better than to ask. He’d just reply he’d seen it in the Fade. “What do you expect to find beyond that door?”

“If we are lucky, the means to travel from this place more quickly than we arrived.”

“I can see how that might be useful. Show me what I must do.”

Samahlas’ eyes began to glow, and violet energy surrounded the door, making the runes go bright. “The latch should be visible now, though you’ll have to activate your markings to touch it,” he said.

Fenris glanced at him sidelong, suspiciously, but the man stood still, waiting, unperturbed.

Very well, he’d made his choice.

It really was just a handle set onto a hinge. Fenris flexed his hand and felt the lyrium go bright, burning, and reached out tentatively.

Instead of meeting nothingness, as often was the case when he went ghostly, he felt the cold, firm solidness of the metal. He tugged on it and heard a slight click. Then the door started opening of its own volition, pulling him forward as he still had his hand on the handle. He withdrew immediately, glaring over at Samahlas, whom for once wore a satisfied grin.

“What would you have done if I’d left?” Fenris asked, hearing the door settle against the wall behind it.

“There are other ways, but I would have been here far longer. I appreciate your assistance.”

The mage made one of the empty sconces beyond the door flare up with blue-green flames, and they stepped inside to what seemed initially a sparsely ornamented corridor. Golden mosaic and winding vines were carved into every surface on a second more direct look.

At the end of it stood glowing what looked like a much larger version of Merrill’s old mirror, but without the branches. The surface of it swirled with purplish blue light. On either side were statues of elven archers, their bows pointed out into the corridor.

“Excellent, the node is intact. I couldn’t get to it from the other side.”

Fenris managed to keep his jaw from dropping, so as not to gape like a fish. “I’ve never seen one that worked.”

“Yes. I’ve been securing portions of the surviving network. I may need your hands again, if you are willing.”

“Network? How many eluvians are there?”

“A few hundred remain. There used to be thousands, all across the Empire.”

Not Tevinter, not Orlais. “Elvhenan.”

“Yes.”

“You don’t think small, do you, mage? If I’m to stay, lend you my power—be your tool, do you intend to tell me your real name?” If they were to work together like this, he needed to have as much on the table as he could afford to give.

“Are you planning to tell me yours?”

Fenris grinned at him darkly. “My mother named me Leto. It doesn’t fit what I’ve become. Fenris is good enough.”

The mage sighed. “Call me Solas, then.”

Pride, hubris—that which came before a fall.

Confirmation of his suspicions at last. The man was a former Inquisition mage and part of the inner circle there. He’d last been heard from delivering a very ominous message to the Inquisitor before saving their life—that he intended to restore the elves regardless of the cost.

Solas was also much, much older than he looked.

“Varric thinks very poorly of what you’ve set out to do,” he admonished, recalling certain colorful lines from his friend’s letters. Chuckles he called him.

Solas’ frown deepened. “He is content with the world as it is. I am not. Nor, would it seem, are you.”

“I wish I could say you were wrong.” Fenris moved closer to the eluvian, and gave the surface an experimental touch. “Where do we go from here?” It felt like water, a swirl of soft rain.

“To secure more paths, and then to rest. Come, there is much to do. But first, let us re-key the lock back there, that either of us can operate it independently. We may need to come back this way, later.”

* * *

Solas remained distant much of their time together.

And they worked closely, Fenris one of the few people he kept near at hand. He didn't call him a lieutenant, for that would infer that he had power over him, that what they had was an organization—but Fenris understood hierarchy and dominance, and that some people enjoyed being led; he didn't necessarily mind following. Solas seemed to rely on him not to agree with him mindlessly, and as a second pair of eyes. Someone who had knowledge of the cultural nuances which sprawled through the different factions. He'd earned a regard close to trust. Though in the weeks and months that passed, Fenris caught brief glances of something else from him, a sort of longing, when he sought out his face.

These slips were particularly noticeable when they occurred, as the man so often kept his expression schooled to seem bland and unexceptional. Always hiding in plain sight, the old wolf crouched still in trees and snow. Grieving stormcloud eyes which held too much information about things best forgotten. Every flicker of something else, of lightness, of humor, of brazen admiration, was significant. 

Still, Fenris tried not to cross into the bubble of personal space Solas maintained. He didn’t even think the man was touch-averse, just… wary. 

There were always slips, though, for they were constantly on the move.

It happened once, memorably, just passing through a door too fast. Just inside the sanctum of an old temple, where they were to meet up with a small group of potentially useful, but hot-headed elves, he meant to recruit. A step too quick and he’d ended up with his chest pressed against Solas’ back. An accident, but it caught Solas by surprise, and he was unable to hide his sharp intake of breath, or the blush that went up to his ears. 

Unexpected—and perhaps Fenris’ hand lingered a few seconds too long on his shoulder as he steadied himself. If it hadn't been intentional at first, it became so. The heated look he gave Fenris, as he disentangled was less one of irritation than of deep-seated frustration; before he could say a word, Solas shook his head and stalked away. 

The closest he came to forcing him to acknowledge what was growing unspoken between them, was in a moment of rare vulnerability.

For in the elven ruins which they delved for safehouses and artifacts, there were sometimes ancient amenities still intact—one of which was a bathhouse accessible only via eluvian. It behooved them to make use of this thing which still existed after so long. Perhaps they could have taken turns, but they'd been in proximity so much, helped the other with rent armor and bandages, they had no shyness around each another. Or so he'd thought. 

The sight of Solas biting his lip as Fenris slid into the water across from him, hooded eyes brushing over his body before he guiltily looked away, stuck with him for a very long time.

“Nothing would catch fire here if you were to touch me,” Fenris had taunted, while Solas continued not to meet his eyes. The water in the pool was very clear, despite the weak light from above, magic keeping the water from stagnating and the tiles from turning green with life. Very clear.

“Fenris. I can’t.” 

Avoiding complications, he said; duty above all else, while running towards death carefully but gleefully every day. Considering the upheaval they were planning for the world, it was dangerous to lose control of their feelings. One of them might compromise the other. It was harsh but necessary. Fenris thought Solas told himself more lies than he ever had anyone else. 

Solas’ eyes lingered on him constantly, and from these glances Fenris didn’t sense concern or calculation from him. Something closer to what Varric referred to in his novels as ridiculous pining. Possibly he was projecting his own desires, but he didn’t think so. 

And, of course, there was the matter of his tattoos. While discussing certain other abilities Fenris might be able to learn, Solas revealed that he loathed them. Even if it was to both their detriment, he’d rather see him freed of the slave markings. 

“I would remove them myself, if you wished it,” he'd said.

“You know why that’s impossible.” He'd still be a skilled fighter, but his advantages in strength and speed, and the ability to go insubstantial would be lost.

Regardless of how much Solas valued his mind, it wasn't enough to compensate. With the lyrium Fenris could do things even powerful mages could not. Solas would even have difficultly fending him off, if he caught him by surprise—which Fenris knew from sparring with him. Half of resisting a mage's attacks was simply not being on the same plane as they were. Fortunately for them both, neither of them had crossed a personal line yet that demanded the other's death.

“What if I could promise the process wouldn’t hurt you?” 

Fenris had stared at him for a moment when he'd said that. That Solas cared about hurting him or not was a surprise in of itself.

He shook his head and laughed at the suggestion. “I can live with pain, I can’t live with being powerless.” It was more freeing to learn from him that the tattoos had uses beyond bringing death, despite that being their primary function. It gave him strength just knowing Solas valued him beyond his battle prowess.

Fenris held the sentiment close. For now, all he had of him was the knowledge of his true face, unobscured by spells, a smile that only flashed when the plan was already in motion, the stakes higher than ever, never a full smile, but intimate, and certain.

He’d follow Solas into the Void and beyond, and the bastard knew it. Luckily, their purposes were intertwined towards a similar goal.

The more Fenris winnowed out about Solas’ past, the more he began to suspect his friend was also a former slave. He knew all the right words, understood how the fear of being returned to it never really left. A person who gladly showed his teeth to anyone who threatened that space between him and the chains he’d worn. 

Fenris had no illusions about being able to hold onto him even if Solas did succumb to want. Nor was he expecting more than the loyalty that existed inside the space of a single objective—the sort relying upon cooperation and the unspoken need to destroy any and all that came to oppose them. But there was that tug inside of him, that unfading desire to see him again, preferably with much less clothing, and a lot less blood on their skin. One day perhaps he'd make him moan beneath him. 

When all pretense finally broke between them, it was also the first time one of their missions went very badly. Solas always tried to plan for every contingency, had a backup plan ready, so he could circle back around and try again. When he failed, often the situation was something he never could have accounted for.

This time the earth itself betrayed them, an ancient tunnel collapsing between two lit eluvians. Bottlenecks like this were always dangerous.

Maybe it was a trap they’d missed in their haste, maybe it wasn’t. 

Solas had his barriers to protect him. Fenris, just a little too far behind, did not have the full benefit of them.

All he remembered was the roar of falling debris, a curse barely escaping his lips and then darkness. 

Then he felt pain in his head and his ribs as the movement of being carried jostled his injuries. Fenris was bigger than Solas, who, while not frail, had the lean body of a man who often walked or ran long distances with little encumbrance. Without magic he’d never have been able to carry him for long.

Perhaps he heard him groan, for he stopped short, and eased him to the ground.

Fenris’ head swum and the tiny light Solas made divided into fours in front of his eyes. He heard his voice, a muffled panic as he held him up and tried to get him to drink from a flask full of some manner of highly potent healing brew. One of the only potions he’d ever had that didn’t taste like the bottom of a canal, but he was too delirious to really appreciate it.

He must have slept for a bit, for when he woke he could see a ball of veilfire, and Solas was sleeping next to him. For once his arms weren’t folded under his head, instead he had his head on his pack, and one arm looped over Fenris’ chest.

The soft, peaceful look on his face made Fenris loath to wake him, but the sooner they got out of this dark place the better.

Just the slightest motion pulled Solas to waking. “Fenris?” He was already on his knees next to him.

Fenris sat up slowly, still able to feel where he’d been injured even if the wounds had been knit.

“You should have left me. Now you’ll never stop her,” he said, and ran his hand over his blood-soaked hair.

Of the Evanuris, Andruil was the one Solas had been the most concerned about finding, hoping to reach her while she was still disoriented from waking from uthenera. The Veil hadn't fallen, not exactly, but with the waking of the Titans it had changed, and with it the prisons of the Evanuris were effectively unlocked. They were one of seven teams set to quell the false gods before their madness shattered existence, and containing the huntress was their goal. It was not likely she could be killed.

Solas shook his head at him. “Don’t be a fool, it wasn’t up to you. This is scarcely over yet.” Fenris could hear the fear in his voice though.

Their eyes met, and before his mind caught up with his heart, Fenris pulled him into his arms. Solas stiffened in his grasp for a moment and then, as if relieved, kissed him back. All of his reserve dissolved in one desperate instant.

A rubble-strewn corridor somewhere between the Fade and the waking world wasn’t the sort of place he’d hoped to finally have him, but perhaps, considering their lifestyle, it was inevitable.

All Fenris knew was that, at least for now, he had no intention of leaving the Dread Wolf’s embrace.


End file.
